Tick Tock Goes the Clock
by the-time-goddess-of-221b
Summary: It's just another normal week for Sherlock and John until Detective Inspector Lestrade shows up with a confusing case with over 10 missing people. Sherlock and John soon find that something is not quite right and they end up getting thrown into an entirely different world. And they soon discover that they might be in over they're heads.
1. Chapter 1

"John can you pass me my magnifier?" Sherlock muttered as he stooped down next to the body. John shuffled over to the table and picked up the detective's miniature magnifying glass and passed it over to him.

"Thank you," He heard Sherlock whisper and he snatched the instrument away from him. John stood in shock momentarily, Sherlock had just _thanked _him. Shaking he head he walked over to the dead body and knelt next to it. He chanced a glance at Sherlock, his eyes were darting around the body, observing every scrap of information visible to the human eye and there was a look of deep concentration etched onto his beautifully angular face- _no stop it. _

"What?" Sherlock asked, stopping his investigation to stare questioningly at him.

"Oh," John said in embarrassment as he realized he had spoken out loud. "Nothing, just a mental note."

Sherlock continued to stare and John felt the heat rush to his face. He hated that stare, he felt like Sherlock could see right through him and deduce his every thought.

After a few tense seconds Sherlock finally broke eye contact and returned his focus to the unfortunate victim lying on the floor in front of them.

"I think the cause of death here is far from a mystery," John said, motioning to the gaping gash that stretched completely across the dead man's neck. "What we need to know is what, and more specifically who, made the cut."

Sherlock nodded and leaned in closer to the stiff's neck, his nose hardly a hairs width away from the wound, and peered through his magnifying glass. John heard him chuckle softly and saw him smile.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled and the sound of rushed footsteps could be heard pounding down the hallway towards them.

"What? Did you find something?" The detective inspector asked as he stepped into the room.

"You have his card and have checked it already I assume," Sherlock said, ignoring Lestrade's question.

"Yes of course, why?"

"What was the last transaction on the card?"

"Um well," Lestrade fumbled with his phone and pulled up an email on it. "It says the last thing he used his card for was the barbers."

Sherlock's face lit up and he stood. "When? When did he pay for it?"

"November 12th. Hold on, that was yesterday, that was the day he died."

"Precisely," Sherlock said triumphantly and he ripped off his latex gloves. "And if I'm correct his barber's name is Joseph, right?"

Lestrade stood stunned and he stared at the information on his phone, "Yes, yes that is his name. But how-"

"It was his barber, Lestrade." Sherlock interrupted. "The cut on his neck is jagged and uneven, no knife would slice like that, so if it wasn't a knife what was it? Glass? No, even glass would give a cleaner cut than this. The blade was thin, very thin, but the way the attacker sliced caused the wound to be wider than the width of the blade. Also the attacker's hands were shaking so he was not acclimatized to violence, hence the jagged cut and unevenness. So we aren't dealing with a professional killer but rather a normal person. I also found faint traces of shaving cream inside the wound and upon smelling it I could detect a faint scent that smelled slightly of ginger and lilac. I know of only one barber in London who uses such fine blades and this type of shaving cream, his name is Joseph Cunner and he runs the small barber shop down the road called Cunning Cuts. Now if I were you inspector I would send a team down straight away as his shop closes in fifteen minutes."

And with that Sherlock walked out the door, coat billowing behind him.

John and Lestrade stood momentarily in shock. John was the first to recover, "Thank you Greg. Call us if you need anything else." He said lightly as he walked past him and out the door.

Sherlock was waiting for him outside. "What the hell was all that about?" John asked as he called a taxi over.

"What was what?"

"You know what. Why were in such a rush to leave all of a sudden?"

The cab pulled up to the curb and the two men climbed inside. Only once the cab started moving did Sherlock answer his question.

"That case was a waste of time. Even a five-year old could have solved that! I haven't had a challenging case in weeks! If something doesn't turn up soon..." He let the sentence trail off, both of them knowing how it was going to end.

"I'm sure something will turn up." John said assuringly. Sherlock sighed and reached across the aisle to grip John's hand. John blushed and he shifted his weight slightly in unease. They had been dating for two weeks now but he was still having a hard time adjusting to this new relationship.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked worryingly. He had never heard him sound worried before the fall but now Sherlock almost seemed like a different person around him. He would show emotions (but only when he was alone or with John) and would sometimes even confide in him.

"Yeah, I'm fine." John said, "I'm just a little tired is all."

Sherlock nodded and grinned, "Me too."

John looked up at him with surprise, "Really? You're actually tired? Someone call the press, the great Sherlock Holmes is tired!" He teased.

Sherlock let out a deep baritone chuckle and John joined in. He laced his fingers through Sherlock's, all nervousness forgotten, and gave his hand a slight squeeze.

A few hours later John was fast asleep in his bed, wrapped in Sherlock's comforting embrace. They both slept deeply, not knowing that tomorrow would change their lives forever.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock!"

John and Sherlock bolted awake to the yell of Greg Lestrade and the sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs. Sherlock flew out of bed, snatched his robe, and was out of the bedroom in less than five seconds flat. John, on the other hand, was not so enthusiastic. Reluctantly, he yawned and slipped out of bed. Grabbing his robe he walked out into the living room, rubbing his eyes, to find Greg already seated on the couch and Sherlock frantically pacing in front of the window.

"Nothing? There was absolutely nothing? Are you sure?" Sherlock asked Greg as he continued to pace.

"Yes I'm sure, we checked everything."

"Even with the black light? We found a message like that before, remember."

"Yes, Sherlock, we even checked with the black light. I'm telling you they left _nothing _behind!"

"Good, excellent," Sherlock muttered under his breath and he steepled his fingers against his chin.

"I'm sorry," John said as he walked into the room, "but _who_ left nothing?"

Just as Greg opened his mouth to answer his phone beeped. "Sorry I've got to take this," he said as he pressed the phone to his ear and walked out the door.

So John turned to Sherlock for answers, "What's going on?"

"Disappearances," Sherlock said vaguely and he continued to pace, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"How many?" John pressed.

"They're not sure of exact numbers yet, but so far they have counted at least ten."

"Ten!" John exclaimed, "Jesus, were they all at once?"

"Yes, pretty much. They were all within hours of each other." Greg answered him as he returned to the living room. "And as far as we can tell there is no direct link between all the missing persons whatsoever. Also, as you heard me tell Sherlock, there was no sign of any kind struggle or any disturbances. There was no evidence of anything. Not a thing. No footprints, no fingerprints, not even any disturbance in the dust."

"Wonderful," Sherlock whispered under his breath and John saw Greg shoot him a look.

"So, will you help?" Greg asked the pacing detective.

"Yes of course," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Text me the address of the first crime scene, we will be there momentarily."

Greg bobbed his head in thanks and left, closing the door behind him.

The moment Greg was out of earshot Sherlock stopped pacing and let out an excited yell. He rushed down the hallway and into his bedroom to get dressed. John sighed and rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, it was going to be a long day he could tell.

* * *

Once both of them were properly attired John hailed a cab as Sherlock pulled up the address on his phone. John could tell Sherlock couldn't wait to get to the crime scene; he was practically bouncing in his seat in excitement and was anxiously tapping his fingers on his thigh. And in less than ten minutes the cab rolled to a stop outside a cheery looking flat and the two men climbed out to investigate.

John's first impression of the flat was its overwhelming sense of normality. Nothing struck him as unusual or out of place; this flat was the textbook definition of plain. Apparently Sherlock did not agree, he was inspecting and examining every inch of the exterior with great interest.

"Fascinating," He heard Sherlock mumble as he inspected the walkway up to the door.

"What? Did you find something?" John asked, leaning down next to him and searching for the place of interest.

"No, I found nothing. Absolutely _nothing_." Sherlock said as he moved to a new location.

"Nothing, that's what you're excited about?"

"Yes!"

"...Why?"

Sherlock stopped his examination and turned to face John, "Because this is new. Not once have I studied a crime scene like this and not found a single clue right away. It's incredibly intriguing."

"Right," John replied hesitantly. _I think the lack of interesting cases has finally gone to his head._

After thoroughly inspecting every inch of the outside of the flat Sherlock walked over to the front door, pushed it open, and walked confidently inside. After a moment of hesitation John followed, something about this flat was putting him on edge.

Sherlock and John searched the flat for any sign of a clue as to where the missing person was and who took them, but to no avail. Only after several hours of observation and many long interviews with the family of the victim did Sherlock finally agree to leave.

"So, what did you find?" John asked after they were both seated in the cab and on their way to the next missing person's home.

"Nothing," Sherlock said irritably. His initial excitement for the difficulty of the case had quickly deteriorated and had left him sulky and cranky. "It just doesn't make sense!"

* * *

They arrived at the next flat and repeated the same procedure, with little success. Neither of them could detect any kind of clue as to where the victims were or who took them. In fact, even after visiting eight other homes, they didn't have a single scrap of data that was useful.

When they finally did return home to 221B Sherlock immediately sat down on his chair and whipped out John's laptop.

"Come on Sherlock, give it a rest." John yawned, "We've been working on that case all day, and it's nearly one in the morning. Please just come to bed."

"No, John, I have to find something."

"Look Sherlock-"

"I _have_ to, John! Don't you understand?" Sherlock yelled and he slammed his hand down on the arm if the chair. John jumped back in surprise. "This isn't supposed to happen to me. I am Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective that can solve _any_ case. I don't just find _nothing_. I've never found _nothing_. There's always a connection and there's always clues, you just have to observant enough to see them! Now leave me alone, I need to think."

He pulled his knees up against his chest and closed his eyes. John knew him well enough to know when he was entering his "mind palace" and he retreated to his room. He got undressed and slipped under the covers.

Just as he was about to drift off to sleep he heard the door open and the soft patter of bare feet on the floor. Quickly, John closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, pretending to be asleep, he wasn't really in the mood to talk. The footsteps stopped next to him and he felt long, slim fingers brush his bare shoulders as the covers were pulled up to his neck.

"I'm sorry John," Sherlock whispered and John heard the footsteps retreat back to the hallway. He smiled to himself and drifted off into a peaceful slumber, only to be reawakened a few short hours later by a triumphant shout from Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

"I've got it John! I've got something!"

John groaned and glanced at the clock as he rolled out of bed. It read 5:30 am. Groggily John wandered into the living room where Sherlock was pacing back and forth in front of the computer.

"What is it? What did you find?" John asked with interest.

"We didn't find anything because we were looking in the wrong place, John!" Sherlock rambled off, "We were looking for how the _people_ were connected when what we should have been looking for was if the _flats_ were connected. Maybe with the same wallpaper or the same item of furniture."

"But I didn't notice anything like that," John responded. "All of the flats were pretty distinctly different."

"Yes I know, I thought the same thing. So I went through the pictures I had taken on my phone of some interesting places in the flats. It took me a while but soon I found this," Sherlock turned the laptop around to face John and on the screen was a blurred picture of a stone statue in the shape of an angel with its hands covering its face.

"So what?" John asked, "It's a statue, I've seen ones like that all over the place."

"All of them, all of the families of the missing people, have a statue similar to this one somewhere in their house. I don't know what it means, it could be nothing, but it's all I've got." Sherlock ran a hand through his black curly hair in frustration. John suppressed a smile; he loved it when he did that.

"It's not much," John sighed and he sat down in his chair across from Sherlock's.

"I know," Sherlock shrugged as he sat back down in his chair and pulled the laptop onto his lap. "But it's worth a look don't you think?"

* * *

Later that day, Sherlock got permission from Lestrade to go back to the flats and take another look at them. They pulled up to the first one they visited only to find the road blocked off and police cars surrounding it. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John in surprise and they made their way over to the crime scene.

"What's going on?" John asked the first officer he could find, which just happened to be Sally Donavan.

"We've got another one. The poor missing girl's mum is gone now too." Sally replied with a smirk. "Same conditions, nothing was disturbed. It seems we finally have a case on our hands that even the great Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson can't solve."

"Oh I wouldn't be so sure of that Sally," Sherlock muttered as he passed under the tape and walked towards the flat. Sally rolled her eyes and walked off to talk to another officer and John jogged over to catch up with Sherlock.

"I need to take another look at that statue," Sherlock mumbled as they passed through the door and into the flat. As usual, Sherlock's memory was impeccable and they managed to locate the room with no problem. The room was surprisingly barren with only a few select pieces of furniture to decorate the interior. One of these pieces was the waist-high stone statue of a weeping angel. John felt the same sense of unease that he had before as Sherlock slowly approached the statue.

"Sherlock," John said nervously and he gripped his arm, forcing the detective to turn around and face him.

"What?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Just, be careful. There's something about that statue that makes me uneasy." John responded tensely.

Sherlock's demeanor softened and he nodded. If there was one thing he never did it was ignore the instincts of a soldier. John released his arm and they both fixed their eyes back on the statue.

Or at least where the statue _had_ been. Now there was just empty space where the stone carving had stood only moments before.

"What?!" Sherlock exclaimed and he rushed over to the area of interest.

"But- but how could it be gone?" John stammered. "It was right there only a second ago! Nothing could have moved it that fast!"

"Precisely!" Sherlock retorted and he began to examine the corner it had stood in intently. "So it couldn't have been there in the first place! A neat little trick but there must be mirrors or a projector around here..."

As Sherlock continued to look for the source of the illusion John examined the rest of the room. He scanned the walls as he turned in a circle; they were bare except for a window on the far right wall. With a sigh he turned to face the doorway and let out a startled yell as he scrambled for his gun. Standing in the doorway was the statue, its hands had moved away from its face and it was staring at John with an angry snarl.

Sherlock spun around at John's yell and John saw an expression he had rarely witnessed on the cunning detective's face, pure shock.

"Oh that's amazing," Sherlock said in awe as he stepped closer to the angel.

"No Sherlock don't-" John warned, he still held his gun up and pointed at the statue although he didn't know what good it would do.

"Relax John, it's just a trick of the light." Sherlock comforted him and he reached out his hand to touch it.

"No don't!" John shouted as he ran over to Sherlock and pushed him out of the way, he felt something cold and smooth rub up against his arm and then everything went black.


	4. Chapter 4

"John!"

Sherlock stumbled and watched in shock as the air around John seemed to ripple, there was a soft popping sound and then… nothing. John was gone. He had simply disappeared right in front of Sherlock's eyes.

The statue had moved, its arm was outstretched to the space where John had stood only moments before. Sherlock backed away from the angel, whatever it was it wasn't just a statue. _Ok ok, calm down_, Sherlock thought, _no need to jump to conclusions. Of course it is a statue, it's just a trick of the light, it has to be._ He shook his head to clear it of the uneasy feeling that was beginning to creep into the outer fringes of his thoughts, and when he opened his eyes he saw, to his horror, the angel only inches away. He let out a startled yell and stumbled backwards.

"Who's doing this?" Sherlock yelled at the empty air. "It's very clever, I must admit, very convincing. But this has gone on long enough. Come on out John, I know you were in on it too."

There was no reply. Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the angel as he reached down and picked up some of the dust that had accumulated on the barren floor and threw it at the statue. It dispersed as soon as it hit and some of it even settled on the shoulders of the angel. Well so much for the idea of it being a projection.

The angel was blocking the way to the only door in the room so it looked like running wasn't going to be an option. The only other available route at his disposal happened to be the window behind him that he was slowly backing up towards. He would rather not use that route if he could avoid it, as he was on the second floor.

"John?" He called out one more time in a last attempt to convince himself that this was all just a prank.

"Sherlock! Don't turn around! Keep staring at that statue!" Replied an unfamiliar voice from directly behind him. Sherlock was just about to ignore the speaker's advice and turn around to discover who the mysterious voice belonged to when he heard a much more familiar sound.

"Sherlock listen to him!" John yelled, "Just keep your eyes fixed on that angel and don't blink!"

"John is that you!?" Sherlock rejoiced as he continued to have a staring contest with a slab of carved stone.

"Yes it's me, Sherlock. Before you ask I'm alright, a little rattled, but alright. Just keep staring at that statue and back up towards the window."

"Why? It's just a statue John, carved stone. Why do I need to keep staring at it and why can't I blink? Also who's your friend?" Sherlock asked with suspicion as he continued to back towards the window, keeping his gaze on the angel the whole time.

"I'm the Doctor!" The strange voice answered, "And technically that's not a statue, well it is right now, but it won't be if you take your eyes off it, all will be explained in time, just keep coming this way!"

"You're not making any sense!" Sherlock chaffed.

"Just listen to him for now, Sherlock. You're almost here." Said John nervously.

Sherlock felt his back press up against the wall and he felt to his left for the opening of the window. "Where are you John? Are you on a ladder or something?"

"Um no, not exactly. It's a little hard to explain-"

"We're in the TARDIS!" The Doctor interrupted John in excitement. "It's short for Time And Relative Dimension In Space and it's my gorgeous space ship!"

"John your friend is completely mental!" Sherlock exclaimed as he continued to move along the wall to the left. His eyes were watering and stinging before he finally felt the cool lip of the windowsill. As soon as he had moved in front of it he felt two pairs of strong hands grasp the back of his coat and yank him backwards, out the window. He let out a terrified yell as his feet swung in empty air and he looked down to find the ground twenty feet away.

"Hold on Sherlock," John grunted, "we're trying to pull you up."

Sherlock swallowed hard, he had developed a small fear of heights ever since he had taken the plunge from the top of Bart's. He looked away from the ground and back up at the window where he had been minutes before and he saw the stone angel looking out at him. But he must have imagined it because he blinked and it was gone.

John and the Doctor let out a final groan as they finally managed to pull the lanky detective up into the TARDIS. Sherlock closed his eyes in relief and before he could open them and take a good look around John wrapped his arms around him and pulled him into a warm embrace.

"It's good to see you again," John whispered in his ear.

Sherlock pulled back some and raised his eyebrow at John, "It's good to see you too. But I don't understand why it's such a monumental event. I saw you only a few seconds ago, right before you vanished."

John smiled sadly, "It was only a few seconds for _you_, for me it was a little over six months."

Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief, "But- but that's not possible. John you must be mistaken-"

"He's right, I just happened to come across John as I was taking a nice relaxing stroll down 18th century London." The Doctor interrupted him. Sherlock stood up, turned around, and let out an audible gasp.

"Welcome to the TARDIS!" Said the tall, handsome man with the blue bowtie and suspenders as he opened his arms wide and gestured to the massive console all around them.


	5. Chapter 5

John couldn't name a time he had seen Sherlock Holmes speechless before but there would be no other word to describe him now as he took a few steps forward with an open expression of awe on his face. His lips were parted slightly and his eyes were glazed as he scanned the entire room and grabbed at John for support. John rushed to his side and let Sherlock lean on him as they continued to approach the main console at the center of the room. The Doctor was leaning off to the side and watching them with amusement.

"It's a little overwhelming at first but you'll soon get used to it." The Doctor said cheerfully as he began pulling levers and pushing buttons. John guided Sherlock to a chair; the detective had still not uttered a word. The TARDIS engines grinded and not a second later it landed with a thump.

"Right-o," The Doctor quipped, "we're here!" He pulled the doors open with a bang and sauntered out.

Sherlock seemed to snap out of his trance and he blinked and rubbed his eyes. "Where?" Sherlock asked sharply as John helped him up and they made their way towards the door.

"Home sweet home!" The Doctor exclaimed, spreading his arms wide and spinning in a circle. "So this is what two-hundred and twenty-one B looks like, I had always imagined it slightly bigger."

As soon as John and Sherlock stepped out of the TARDIS the doors slammed shut behind them with a bang.

"Oh now, no need to be rude." The Doctor scolded, pointing a shaming finger at the blue box.

"Sorry, did you just scold a box?" John asked, slightly amused.

"It's not a box it's a TARDIS! My TARDIS!"

"Right," John said with a roll of his eyes.

As John and the Doctor had been chatting Sherlock had walked fully around the blue box, scrutinizing every inch of the old wood it was composed of.

"I think," Sherlock started as he completed his circle around the TARDIS, "that some explanations are in order, Doctor."

"Of course," the Doctor said with a grin as he plopped down on the couch. "I think I already know what your first question is but go ahead and ask me anyway, I like to hear people say it."

"What did you mean when you said you imagined this flat would be bigger?"

The Doctor looked slightly taken aback, "Well that's certainly not what I was expecting," he said, slightly disappointed. "I like it when people say its 'bigger on the inside'."

"You haven't answered my question, _Doctor_." Sherlock retorted, sarcasm and suspicion dripping from the last word.

"Ah no reason, no reason at all. Sometimes words just seem to slip out of my mouth without my permission." He replied with a smile.

"Now it has been wonderful, absolutely wonderful to meet you Sherlock Holmes," The Doctor said cheerfully as he stood up and crossed the room to shake Sherlock's hand. "And you John Watson. Honestly it's been my pleasure. But I really have to go, I've got some important business to attend to."

"But, Doctor, I still have so many-"

"Just one more thing." Sherlock interrupted John.

"John," Sherlock asked, turning towards him. "Did you ever tell your friend here my last name?"

John blinked at the random question and it took him a moment to answer. "Um, no. I don't believe I did."

Sherlock smiled and tightened his grip on the Doctor's hand. "How do you seem to know so much about us, Doctor? For example, where we live? I don't think John would have mentioned that, do you?"

John shook his head, confirming Sherlock's accusation.

"No, I thought not. How do you know my last name and what is in your pocket?"

The Doctor's face darkened and he pulled away from Sherlock. "What are you talking about?"

"What's in your right jacket pocket Doctor? Because every time I've asked you how you know so much about us your right hand drifts over that pocket and brushes past it. I can see a faint outline of some rectangular shape, can't be a slip of paper, it's too think for that, and the crease is smooth and unwrinkled. Nothing easily crumpled then, perhaps a small note pad or a book. But whatever it is, it's the source of your knowledge about us."

The Doctor smirked and clapped his hands once. "Wow, you are amazing. That was impressive, extremely impressive, but," he stepped closer to the detective, getting into his personal space, "Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, the man who can deduce anything and anyone, the human trying to make himself into a god. I can't tell you what it is and you can never know, I'm sorry."

Sherlock fixed his cold glare on the Doctor and tilted his chin up. "Tell me."

"I can't."

"Tell me!"

"I can't!"

"Sherlock, stop," John intercepted, trying to break it up.

"Stay out of this John," Sherlock said pushing him away, never looking away from his opponent.

"How are you possible Doctor? You look young but your eyes are old and tired. When I shook your hand I took your pulse and discovered that it was beating twice as fast yet you are not out of breath or exercising in any way. Your "machine" what do you call it, a TARDIS, has a larger volume on the interior than the exterior could possibly withhold and it seems to be able to move through walls. If it wasn't for the fact that I could never had dreamed up a scenario like this I would think I was asleep. Now," Sherlock pulled out his gun, "no one is going anywhere until you explain everything."

The Doctor smiled sadly and glanced down at the gun pointed at his stomach. "Guns, why does it always come to guns?"

"Sherlock," John said as soothingly as possible, he had never seen Sherlock get this intense before. "I think we can do this without any bloodshed."

"Humph," Sherlock grunted, "since when were you so opposed to violence?" But he did lower his weapon a little.

"Right, Doctor," John started. "What's your real name, let's start with that."

"The Doctor, just call me the Doctor."

"Yes but what's your _name_?"

"I can't say." He said with a shrug.

"You see John, how can we trust someone who won't even tell us his name?" Sherlock growled and he started to raise his gun again. John put his hand out and touched his shoulder, motioning for him to relax.

"Ok fine, Doctor. How is your box bigger on the inside?" John asked calmly.

The Doctor opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock blurted out before he had even taken a breath. "I suspect that it's dimensionally transcendental. Meaning the interior is in a slightly different dimension than the one we are currently in and the only "entrance" to this particular dimension is through that doorway." He pointed behind him at the doors to the police box.

Both John and the Doctor shot him a questioning glance and Sherlock shrugged. "What? Just because I don't believe it's possible doesn't mean that I am completely oblivious to the theories."

John smiled and the Doctor let out a small laugh. "You are absolutely correct, that's exactly how it's done."

"Really?" John asked.

"Well no, not exactly. But if it helps to think of it that way, then yes."

Sherlock scowled and John felt the corners of his mouth turn up against his will; it took all of his self-control not to burst out laughing at the expression on his companion's face.

"Alright, my turn to ask a question." Sherlock retorted with the snarl still on his face. "What do the names above your console mean?"

The Doctor's grin slid off his face and he stood up very straight with a look of immense confusion. "What names?"

"The names, etched above the console. Who were they? You obviously don't usually travel alone so who was Rose? Donna? Martha?" Sherlock listed some off.

"How could you read those?" The Doctor asked, furrowing his brow. "That shouldn't be possible."

"It shouldn't be possible that I can read plain English? Those names were written clear as day, what do you mean it 'shouldn't be possible'?"

"No those names, they weren't written in English."

"What are you talking about? Of course they were!" Sherlock exclaimed in surprise.

The Doctor shook his head, "no, they weren't. They are written in a long lost language, the language of the timelords. The TARDIS doesn't translate Gallifreyan so how could you read it?" He mumbled to himself.

"You're talking nonsense Doctor," Sherlock sighed and finally put away his gun, it didn't look like this bowtie wearing lunatic was going to present much of a problem.

"Right then!" The Doctor said enthusiastically as he jumped up. "Enough of this depressing talk! Remember that business I needed to attend to? Well, I think I would like both of your help."

"Us? For what?" John asked.

"Oh nothing I haven't done before. It's time to save the earth from impending doom again, that's all." He said with a wink as he dashed past the confused pair and into the TARDIS.


End file.
